Moonlight Skirmish
by Colonel Fitz
Summary: A poem written form Aragorn's POV about a skirmish with orcs during his time with the Rangers. Written in free verse, so sorry is it doesn't sound like poetry.


The moon is a silver crescent.

The stars are shining brightly.

The night is peaceful and quiet

And yet we are still wary.

For the thralls of Mordor

May be hiding anywhere.

They are cruel and heartless

There is no love between us.

I hear the dull thumps

Of my companion's soft footsteps.

And the crunch of the leaves

Beneath their booted feet.

The breeze rustles the leaves

Of the trees up above us.

It brings some cool air

And lifts the summer heat.

We stop in a grassy clearing

Surrounded by tall trees.

They seem like black shadows

In the night's darkness.

We light a small fire

And set up our camp.

We eat some of our rations

Mostly bread and dried fruit.

Then we douse out the fire

And set down our cloaks.

We lie down to sleep,

All save two sentries.

I dream of my home,

Back with the elves in Rivendell.

Of my dear _ada,_ Elrond

And the twins Elladan and Elrohir.

I miss them my family dearly,

But the one I truly long to see,

Is the daughter of Elrond,

The dear Lady Arwen Undómiel.

Suddenly, I am awakened

By a low vicious growl.

I swiftly jump to my feet

And I draw my sword.

"Awaken! Awaken!"

The watchmen shout.

For they, like me, have heard

The guttural voices of orcs.

Rangers spring to their feet

All over the once quiet glade.

Some draw their swords

And others draw their bows.

A harsh cry is raised,

From the surrounding trees,

And many ugly twisted orcs

Charge toward our camp.

"Fire!" I loudly bellow.

And my men loose a volley

Of sharp deadly arrows,

Fletched with dark feathers.

Some orcs fall with a thud,

But it is still hard to tell

How many orcs are left

As more creatures surge forward.

I see the the orcs' leering faces

As they rush toward us.

Volley after volley is fired,

But they keep on coming.

We form a ring of swordsmen

Around our shooting archers.

We clash as our forces meet

And the archers continue shooting.

I slash and stab around

In a wild and deadly dance

When a careless accident

Is potentially deadly.

A crude black orc arrow

Whizzes quickly by my head

I hear a cry behind me

And know it's found a mark.

I whirl and swing my sword.

It whistles through the air.

It bites deep into orc,

Spurting foul black blood.

I peer into the darkness

To see what I can see.

I see the large orc captain,

Standing a few paces back.

He bellows some harsh commands

And the orcs press even harder.

They attack with renewed vigor

For they fear their Captain's wrath.

I hack and parry and shout

To any who can hear,

"Shoot their Captain,

The big orc in the rear!"

A slender lethal arrow

Comes flying from behind me.

The archer's aim is true

And the Captain falls with a grunt.

As soon as the evil orcs

Notice their leader is dead,

They flee in all directions;

The attack is now a route.

"Do not pursue them!"

I firmly command.

Everyone quickly comes back.

They know it would be foolish.

We have won again,

But not without a price.

I look around the camp

There is carnage everywhere.

The grass in the glade is trampled.

It is also stained with blood.

Mostly with fetid orc blood,

But there is also red.

The blood of my fallen men

Leaks in to the ground,

Bright red splotches,

Against the green and black.

I hear the moans and groans

Of the wounded men.

I hurriedly walk over

For they need my help.

I try to ignore my surroundings

But they are too distractive.

I can't but help to notice

All the many corpses.

I see many dead orcs

Missing limbs or heads.

None are left alive

But the ones that fled.

But what really makes my heart ache

Are all the men that died

To protect Middle-Earth

From the evil of the Dark Lord.

But I can do nothing for the dead

For they have already passed on.

I can help the wounded though

For I am a skilled healer of Men.

I squat down next to an archer

Sitting on the ground.

He has a cruel orc arrow

Sticking out of his side.

The orc arrow is barbaric.

I see it will be hard to pull out,

For it has almost come out of his back

And it, like most orc arrows, is barbed.

"Gimloth, I need help,"

I call out loudly.

Then I turn to my patient.

He is grimacing in pain.

He quickly comes to assist me

And I whisper in his ear

For I don't want my patient to hear

And panic at what I am going to do.

I explain that I will need to

Push the barbed arrowhead

Out of the poor man's back

In order to get it out.

Because it is so deeply imbedded

If I just try to pull it out

It will only tear more flesh

And cause more pain.

My aide has some experience

And so he understands.

We cut away the clothes

To expose his bare back.

Our patient looks at us in alarm,

But I have learned well from Elrond,

And I whisper some comforting words

And he calms gradually down.

I catch my assistant's eye

And he slowly pulls out a knife.

I suddenly shove the arrow

And he cuts the head off.

Our patient cries out in pain.

And I quickly pull

The rest of the shaft out

And leave the rest to Gimloth.

"Hot water!" I shout

And hot water is brought.

I pull out some _athelas_

Drop them in the pot.

I take my pot of _athelas _with me,

To tend the more seriously wounded.

Many men were hurt

For we were caught unaware.

Orc blades always make

Ragged ugly wounds

For they are rusty and jagged,

Not clean and well taken care of.

But luckily for us Dúnedain,

There were not many or archers

Or there would be many more

Of the wounded and dead.

Also the attacking orc contingent

Didn't have any warg riders.

Wargs and their orc riders

Would have wrecked much havoc.

The wargs most likely would have

Punched through our line of swordsmen

And reached the vulnerable archers

Before they were finally killed.

I bend over a wounded man

With a nasty gash on his temple.

He appear to be unconscious

But stirs and groans when I touch him.

I dip a cloth in my pot

And gently cleanse the cut.

For the kingsfoil in the water

Will keep the wound uninfected.

Athelas is good for healing

But when not in the hands

Of one of Isildur's heirs,

It is usually considered weed.

All who are unscathed

Stay up the rest of the night,

Tending to the wounded

And disposing of the dead.

Some men gather wood

And light another fire

For we cannot leave our dead men

For the scavengers to find.

On a separate pyre

We also burn the orcs

Because we do not want others

To find their armor or weapons.

The sun begins to rise

And the new day comes,

It should make us happy

To see the light again.

But it only reminds us

Of our great sorrow

For all those who didn't

Live to see the day again.


End file.
